


He's Mine

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-14
Updated: 2007-02-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Jess stayed around after she died.





	

She'd stayed.

Of course she'd stayed. Sam had been staring up at their burning apartment with empty eyes when the man in the suit had approached her and told her it was time to go. She'd not even glanced at him, too busy watching Sam, and the way his brother stood next to him without speaking.

“You're dead,” said the man, as if explained the alphabet to a child. “It's time for you to move on.”

Sam walked over to his brother's car, and opened the trunk.

“What about Sam?” she asked, still not looking away from Sam's expressionless face.

“He's still alive.” The man was beginning to sound a little annoyed.

Jessica shook her head. “I'm not leaving him.”

“He'll catch up,” said the man. “They always do.” He sounded a little smug about it. “You need to go now.”

“No,” she said, firmly, “I'm staying with him.”

The man sighed, but he hadn't sounded that surprised when he said, “Fine, it's your choice.” He started to fade away, but added, “You'll regret it, though,” before he disappeared completely.

Jessica ignored him. Sam said something to his brother, threw something she couldn't see into the trunk and slammed the boot. She couldn't imagine leaving him behind.

 

A week later, she was in the back seat of Dean's car as they left Palo Alto, Sam in silence and Dean playing rock music and glancing at his brother as if he was afraid Sam was going to break.

She'd sat through her funeral and watched the faces of her friends and family, wondering why their grief wasn't affecting her more. Her mother had started crying half-way through the service; loud, ugly sobs that had echoed in the church, and her room-mate from freshman year left before the end, slipping outside to sit on a bench and stare at the cars rushing past. Sam had just sat very still, his face blank. Dean had seemed uncomfortable beside him, pulling at his collar and watching his brother more than the priest.

She'd felt no real loss when they left Palo Alto behind, no emotion left for the people she was leaving behind. She was with Sam. That was what mattered.

 

Over the next few months, she learnt a lot that she'd never known about Sam. His dislike for Halloween, his twitchiness when she took a late-night walk and the large amounts of salt he used to get through all suddenly started to make sense. The first time she'd seen him handling a shotgun with familiarity, it had seemed so incompatible with everything she'd thought she'd known about him that she'd wondered for a moment if she was dreaming. Then he'd sat down in a library and proceeded to research the background to a case while wearing an expression that she recognised from a hundred days spent studying together and she remembered all over again why she'd fallen in love with him.

She got to know Dean better, as well, of course. He was never far from Sam these days. It was a little like getting to know another part of Sam – getting to know Dean answered many of the 'whys' behind Sam's behaviour. They fell into a partnership surprisingly easily, and she felt jealous of that. She and Sam had had to work a bit at living together when they'd first moved into the apartment, but Sam and Dean just settled into a routine as if it was second nature. The jealousy, like all her emotions these days, felt flat and weak, like a pale reflection of how she'd used to feel.

It wasn't like being alive. It wasn't even close, really. The most obvious difference was that she couldn't talk to anyone, couldn't even make them see her. In the first few weeks, she spent hours at a time trying to get through to Sam, trying to make him realise she was there, but just succeeded in tiring herself out. That was the worst part of being a...(her mind stuttered over the word 'spirit' – spirits were what Sam and Dean killed) of being how she was. When she ran out of energy, everything would just fade away to nothing and she'd be...gone. Nothing. When she came back, she'd be stronger, but the realisation that for a few hours she just hadn't existed at all made her very uncomfortable, so she avoided it as much as possible, conserving her energy.

She was always around Sam. She'd stayed for him, so it made sense that she'd always be by his side. She'd only tried a few times to leave him before accepting that she couldn't. She really didn't mind that she couldn't go out of sight of him, though. She wasn't really concerned with anyone else anymore – she barely remembered her family or friends and when she did, it was like trying to see through one-way glass. Everything was hazy and indistinct. Only Sam mattered now.

She watched him as he mourned her and wished she could be there for him properly to help with the grief. She tried her best to comfort him – trying to hug him as he stared into space, laying a hand on his forehead when he awoke from a nightmare, but he didn't notice her touch, not even when she misjudged the distance and part of her body slid through his.

She was forced to watch Dean be there for Sam instead. She didn't approve of his methods – he seemed to just leave Sam to brood too often and then snap him out of it with teasing, or another job rather than talking to him about it. Still, she had to admit it was effective, although that just made her more annoyed.

Following Sam around, she saw plenty of other spirits and she noticed how much stronger than her they were, how they managed to appear to the living and make things move. She wasn't sure how they managed it, and none of them were interested in talking to her – some of them didn't even notice her because they were so focussed on their own concerns. In the end, she decided that this level of focus was the key to it, and started to practice again, hoping to be able to build up her concentration enough to affect the world of the living. She spent the hours in Dean's car as they drove through town after town trying to touch Sam's shoulder, feel his hair or even just appear briefly in the mirror so that he'd know she was there.

It meant she wore herself out more often, but she was beginning to get used to the nothing, and it was worth it if it meant she'd be able to contact Sam. She always reappeared near Sam, regardless of where she'd faded out or how far he'd travelled while she was gone.

It was just after one of the black-outs that she discovered that the real key to getting through to Sam wasn't focus, it was anger.

She'd disappeared from the backseat of Dean's car. For a moment, she thought she'd managed to ruffle the curls at the back of Sam's neck slightly, and then the fatigue set in and she felt herself fade away.

When she came to, they'd stopped for the night in a motel. The room was dark, and it took her a moment to realise what she was seeing. Sam was naked and bracing himself on his arms over Dean, who was also naked and had his legs wrapped round Sam's waist and Sam was...Sam was...

The anger rushed through her like a fire and it wasn't pale, or a reflection, but the real thing, the first true emotion she'd felt since she'd died. Suddenly she felt so strong and powerful, like she could do anything. Without really thinking about it, she grabbed Sam's shoulder, barely even noticing the flames that were flickering around her hand in the sudden rush when her hand connected and she was able to pull him off the bed and away from Dean. He gave a cry of shock as he landed on the floor, but for once he wasn't the centre of her attention. The anger was building up like a tidal wave and it was all aimed at Dean, who was starting to sit up, swearing and staring at her with horror.

“He's mine!” she hissed, and then punched Dean in the face as hard as she could. It turned out to be a lot harder than she'd expected. It made her feel amazing and made the anger burn brighter so she did it again. And again. Dean started to try and fight her off, but she found it easy enough to hold him down with one hand and hit him with the other. A dribble of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth and he gasped out words between her punches.

“Sam... shotgun...”

She almost felt alive again. It was exhilarating. She could nearly feel blood rushing through her veins and she was sure that if she concentrated hard enough, she'd be able to hear her heart beating.  
She barely had time to hear the shot behind her, or feel the salt burn into her, before she dissipated back into the blackness of nothing.

 

When she came back, they were in the car again. Dean was driving with hands clenched on the wheel and his foot hard on the gas. Bruises were beginning to blossom on his face, and for a moment she was awed that she could cause so much damage.

Sam was staring out of the window. He looked as if he was seeing something other than the night speeding by, and for a moment Jessica was reminded of the first few weeks after her death. That was quickly replaced by a surge of anger rising up in her again. Sam was hers! What right did Dean have to touch him? She glared at Dean and considered yanking the wheels under his hands, sending the car into a tree, but that was as likely to hurt Sam as it was Dean. She couldn't hurt Sam.

“It's got to be done,” said Dean, as if continuing a conversation after a long silence.

“I know,” said Sam, dully. He sounded exhausted.

“She's...it's not her anymore,” said Dean. He glanced at Sam.

“I know,” said Sam again, this time with an edge to his voice.

Dean didn't say anything else.

Sam's breath was fogging up the window as he stared at the passing landscape. She moved forward, so used to being intangible now that she didn't think twice about moving through the seat and Sam. She concentrated hard, felt the anger well up in her and wrote in the fog with her finger.

_You're Mine_

Sam jolted upright and swore loudly. He looked around the car wildly, and Jess was slightly disappointed that he couldn't see her.

“Pull over,” cried Sam. “Pull over!”

Dean did so with a violent turn of the wheel and a squeal of the brakes.

“What? What happened?”

Sam jumped out of the car the moment it stopped, but Jess wasn't watching him anymore. She was looking at Dean and remembering what he'd looked like spread out under Sam, in her rightful place. She remembered how alive she'd felt when she'd hit him.

Dean threw open his car door, but before he could get out, Jess pulled him back and threw him against the car seat. She climbed on his chest, dimly aware that she was tangible again, and punched him. It felt amazing, just as it had the first time.

 

“Jess,” came Sam's voice, sounding hoarse. She glanced up. He was pointing a shotgun in through the passenger door at her.

“Get off him,” he said.

She looked back down at Dean, who was lying still and just looking up at her.

“Please, Jess,” said Sam, his voice cracking. “Please. We're going to help you, but you need to let Dean go.”

That made the anger rise up in her again. “No!” she hissed. “You're mine!” She knew what 'help' he was talking about and she didn't want it. “I won't leave you!” she said, the thought of it sending her rage to new heights.

Suddenly, her whole body was aflame, and when she reached down and touched Dean's shirt, it sizzled and burnt away. Dean swore, and tried to buck her off, but she ignored him.

“He's mine,” she said again, and drew back her fist to hit him again. That was when Sam shot her. The salt burnt as it hit her and she lost her grip on reality again.

 

They were in the cemetery in Palo Alto, and the Winchesters were digging up her grave. She gave a wordless cry of rage at the sight and threw herself at Dean again, trying to pull the shovel from his hand, but was stopped short by an invisible wall. She glanced down. They'd surrounded the grave with a ring of salt.

They'd both stopped digging at her cry, but when they saw that the salt was holding her back, Dean went back to shovelling dirt. Sam put down his spade and pulled himself out of the grave.

“Jess,” he said, quietly, “Jess, this is for your own good.”

She glared at him. “I don't want to leave you,” she said.

He walked towards her, and stopped just the other side of the saltline. “I know,” he said. His voice was strained, and he took a deep breath before continuing, “but you have to. This...this isn't right. You need to move on.”

“No!” she said, feeling the fire burn around her flesh for a moment again. “I need to stay with you!”

Dean started to break open her coffin, and she could almost feel it, like fingers down her spine.

“I'm so sorry,” said Sam, miserably, “I wish there was another way.”

“No!” she shouted again, louder.

Dean pulled himself out of the hole, and started to spread salt over her bones. It felt like pins and needles.

“Please,” she said, going down to her knees, “Please, Sam. I can't leave you.”

Sam had tears in his eyes. He glanced back at Dean, who was standing, holding a box of matches at the head of her grave, then he looked back at her.

“Jess,” he said in a soft voice. He stepped over the salt line and took her in his arms. She gasped and clung to him, relishing the contact, the chance to be held by him.

“Please,” she begged.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, his voice full of tears. She heard a match spark behind her, and then it felt like her soul was disintegrating.

“Sam...” she managed to gasp as she felt the darkness close around her again. It felt different this time, though. It felt like peace.


End file.
